**shelly At The Penny Arcade Poem by Jon Alan

Down by what used to be the penny arcade
Where me and Shelly used to meet, now and then,
I saw her at first just standing there, a porcelain statuette
Worshiping her viewers with her glass eyes

She used to sleep well for nine hours a day or night
But we never saw things at the same time
She'd see them first, then I would notice, or vice-versa

Is there any of her left in me
I can't say anymore, its been too long since I've tried
Take away the torso and expose the heart
No, not for me anymore.

She used to wait there for me while I worked
in the factory across the street.
People always flowing out and around her like
molecules in a dense translucent fog
And she'd just stand there, that statuette,
viewing the fluid as it viewed her.

People stared at her but never knew why
She was not beautiful, too tall, too breasty,
but graceful as the breeze, a fleeting
flash of a feeling that's happened once before,
but I can't remember where.

Like that lost sense of togetherness
the night we sat at the kitchen table
with one candle lit, her hand in mine,
her head atop mine, resting on the kitchen table.
our feelings twinkling like a star, together, alone
as one, each breath caressed the candle's flame
I can't recall the end of that night.

People never knew why they knew her life story
When they stared at her
They couldn't believe it when they got close

Neither could I the first time at the arcade when
when I went up to her and said something foolish
and touched her softly on the breast
and my entire body tingled

She flinched slightly, causing her breast to jump
upward, and her lips fluttered, and we kissed
there on the step, where she is standing now,
and that porcelain statuette came to life.

The next thing I remember is the night
the candle ruined the kitchen table,
and her head is still resting on mine,
cheek to cheek, her tears dripping down
onto mine, she never said a word to me.

I woke up some time later and found myself
laying on some newspapers on top of a rock
a few feet from the water, and she was arguing
with me with her feelings, churning in me like broken marbles
churning in my gut.

I pleaded with her to stop,
but she wouldn't budge, only whine,
while the sound of the water washed
against the tops of the shoreline rocks.

I felt myself turning then, instead of meeting her
at the arcade I stopped it, finally skipping
that side of the street altogether
But always glimpsing to see if she was still there
until the day she disappeared
My little prayer, the dream I made so many nights,
so many years ago
Before I became convinced it could never work,
and hope was drawn to a close
And then she came and went.

She is out there again today, but not for me
I stand on a chair looking out the factory window.
She told me to go to hell.
I just cannot believe it.